


Dirge of Crowns

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Continuation, Gen, House Lannister, House Stark, Revolution, westerlands - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-17 09:04:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16971726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Centuries after the events of 'A Game of Thrones' the continent of Westeros is united into one glorious empire.The Crownstarks have sat the Iron Throne for centuries while their cousins continue to rule in the North. Having secured Westeros the Empire has set its sights across the seas and has begun seizing other lands. Wealth and power flow into the realm while the commons continue to suffer.On the distant island of Ib a new story begins, but will an old one begin to end?





	1. Chapter 1: Rion Hill

Rion Hill was freezing, slowly freezing to death.

 

He had been since he and his regiment had arrived on this gods-forsaken island. At the time Rion and his fellow soldiers had been relieved to arrive anywhere. Their sea journey aboard a pair of rickety transports had begun in Lannisport and had lasted for nearly two months. The first leg, rounding Westeros and then sailing north up the east coast of the continent had been pleasant enough. There had been stops in Oldtown, Sunspear, Storm’s End, King’s Landing to meet several more ships, and finally to Gulltown.

 

But then they’d headed east across the Shivering Sea. The temperatures had dropped steadily with the coming of autumn and the morale of the men, crammed into suffocating sleeping holds below decks, had plummeted. There had only been one stop on this leg, a quick touch in Lorath for supplies before they’d headed onward toward their destination. The island of Ib.

 

Rion had lived his whole life in the slums of Lannisport, a relatively temperate city. Nothing in that life had prepared him for the biting cold of the northern seas. When he’d finally arrived with the rest of his regiment on Ib they’d been met by even colder temperatures. The only saving grace was the fact that the surface beneath their feet was no longer constantly in motion. Many of Rion’s fellow soldiers had spent the entire voyage being seasick. He had avoided this himself but he’d still been grateful to feel solid ground under his feet.

 

That had been almost a year ago, and the time since had often left him missing his time aboard ship.

 

The Empire of Westeros had decided to conquer the nation of Ibben and it fell to men like Rion and the rest of his regiment to carry out this conquest. Just why the Iron Throne felt that it was necessary for the prosperity of the realm to conquer this bleak rock had never been explained. Instead, they’d received a vague speech about their duty to their monarch and the glory of the empire from their commanding officer, Colonel Ser Kevan Jast. Even Jast hadn’t seemed to believe what he was saying as he spoke, and the men knew it.

 

Rion was a private in the in the 1st battalion of the Jast Fusiliers, a unit named after the man who raised it: Lord Jast, the father of Rion's Colonel. The Jast Fusiliers had arrived on Ib along with the 5th Lannister Hussars to reinforce the troops already there. The conquest of the island had not been going well and the previous commander had been superseded. The new commander was a General Coldwater who had come out in one of the two warships that had escorted the transports on the journey to Ib.

 

This brought the nominal Westerosi strength on the island to a total of seven battalions including six infantry, one cavalry, as well as two artillery companies. Rion was certain that, to the men and women making decisions in the Red Keep, this force would seem overwhelming when compared to the ‘primitives’ they would be facing. Rion also knew that none of these people had ever fought the Ibbenese.

 

The short hairy people of the island were ferocious fighters. Their thick muscular physiques made them more durable than most and they were much more accustomed to the weather of their island. Moreover, they seemed to be without fear. They might be armed mostly with axes, spears, and bows with only a small scattering of muskets, but they fought like demons. Finally, and this put the lie the idea that they were mere savages, they refused to engage the Westerosi invaders in the kind of set-piece battle that would have left them at the greatest disadvantage.

 

“Why the hell don’t they send northern troops to this damned island?” Rion muttered to himself as he paced along a section of the low wall that surrounded the port of Ibben. The greatest, and essentially only, triumph of the Imperial army thus far on Ib had been the capture of this town. Once it had been secured the first act of the previous commander had been to expel all Ibbenses from inside its walls. As a consequence, it was about the only place on the island that could be considered ‘safe’ for the invaders.

 

It was his company’s night to provide pickets for this stretch of wall and Rion had been among those who drew a short straw that night. He understood the reason why guards needed to be posted but questioned how much good it was actually doing. As he stared out over the battlements he couldn’t see more than ten or fifteen yards in the snow storm that was now raging.

 

Stamping his feet and pulling his greatcoat more tightly around him he continued to march back and forth along his assigned section of wall. It took exactly fifty steps to take him from one of the towers that defined this section of wall to the other. While the wall was Ibbenese in origin the towers were new, he knew this because he’d been among those who’d had to build them. Every fifty steps he would look sullenly at the flickering lights in each tower that marked where a fire was burning for the comfort of the officers on duty.

 

Another fifty steps, and then another, followed by many more. He was set to be relieved around five in the morning but without any way of telling the time, he had no idea how long it would be until then. Slinging his musket over a shoulder he blew into his gloved hands before he unslung the weapon once more. The assignment was miserable but it would have been tolerable if he could have had someone to talk to. He didn’t know it but he was about to get his wish.

 

Hearing the sound of a foot crunching in the snow, he spun quickly with his musket leveled. The flickering light of the torches glinting off his bayonet as he barked: “Challenge!”

 

There was a pause before a voice with a strange accent answered: “Robert, first and last of his name”. This was the answer to the night’s challenge. Rion relaxed and a moment later a tall man with lean features materialized out of the blowing snow. It was hard to see in the low light but he seemed to have unnaturally dark eyes and greying hair. Though his bulky greatcoat hid his uniform his whole demeanor screamed ‘officer’.

 

“Ser,” Rion said as he gave as crisp a salute as he could with cold-stiffened arms.

 

“At ease private, I assume you are a private given that you’re out here and not up there?” the man asked as he jerked his head toward the nearest tower and it’s firelight.

 

“Private Rion Hill, 1st battalion Jast Fusiliers,” Rion answered, still standing at rigid attention. The older man looked at him for a while after this. Though he wasn’t certain Rion thought it might have been with a slightly amused expression on his face.

 

“A man of the Westerlands,” he said in a tone that gave nothing away.

 

“Yes ser,” Rion nodded.

 

“You’re a big lad, grenadier?” the man asked.

 

“Yes sir,” Rion nodded. He was indeed part of the 1st battalion’s grenadier company. Grenadiers were usually recruited from the biggest and strongest men the army could get its hands on, and Rion was unusually tall. In battle, the grenadiers were always stationed on the far right of the battle line and were often tasked with the most difficult assaults. When the army attacked a fort or city it was always the grenadiers that led the assault through the walls.

 

“Good, we’ll need as many of you as we can get if we’re going to do our duty here,” the older man said as he turned to look out into the snowy night.

 

Unable to think of anything to say to this Rion just nodded and said: “Yes sir.”

 

This seemed to amuse the man as well though Rion's couldn’t guess why. After another pause in which he studied Rion intently, he asked: “Why are we here private?”

 

It was of Rion’s tongue to give the standard answer. Something about the glory of the Empire and their duty to their sovereign. But something about this man and his strange accent told him that he was expecting something else. So after taking a moment to consider his answer, Rion said: “I reckon it’s because the Ib’s have something that someone in King’s Landing wants. Land, gold, or something. And the Ib’s aren’t likely to just hand it over so it’s for people like me to go and take it from them for the Empire…Ser.”

 

The man actually chuckled at this as he said: “Succinctly put, but nothing from you about your duty? Your honor? Glory in battle?”

 

Encouraged by the man’s relaxed and friendly demeanor Rion said: “I took the crown’s bounty because I was sick of starving. I’ve done things in my life that make me thing honor has passed me by. And as for glory, well maybe fighting can be like that but from what I’ve seen it’s just blood and shit in the mud.”

 

This seemed to sober the other man but he nodded gravely and, Rion suspected, with a hint of approval. He was silent for a long time, staring out over the battlements apparently lost in thought. This went on for so long that Rion was wondering if he should resume his patrolling when the other man stirred. Digging in a pouch at this side he drew out a chunk of cheese and some salt meat which he offered to Rion.

 

“It must be hungry work being up here all night on your own,” the man said. Rion furrowed his brow at this and regarded the offered food with suspicion. His whole experience with officers had not prepared him to deal with this kind of generosity. Most officers treated their men at best as though they were an unfortunate necessity and at worst as though they were all criminals. Which, in fairness, many of them were.

 

“Ser?” was all Rion said, knowing that he needed to say something.

 

“Go on private, I can make it an order if you like,” the man said with an eye-roll. Hesitantly, as though worried the man might snatch the food back, Rion reached out and took it.

 

“Good man, I won’t keep you any longer private, try to stay warm,” the man said before turning to walk away. Rion watched him go for a moment before he resumed his pacing, only twenty more steps to the next tower. He saved the food, however. Like all soldiers, he hoarded it against the not infrequent times when rations ran short.

 

When he was eventually relieved Rion fell out and hurried to where his regiment was being billeted. As he had been the overnight guard he would still have to fall in for morning inspection but would then be allowed to catch a few hours sleep while the rest of his unit began the day. By the time he arrived in the street where his company mustered he found most of the men already waiting though, as usual, no officers in sight.

 

“Morning boys,” he said as he took his usual spot. Several men nodded or gave soft greetings as he did. Though he didn’t realize it, Rion was very popular among his fellows. Before anything else could be said, a huge voice bellowed at them.

 

“Attention!” it roared. At this familiar command, Rion and his fellow soldiers all snapped into rigidly upright postures with eyes forward. A few moments later a group of officers rode into view from further up the street. They were all wearing greatcoats, though of a significantly more luxurious style than those of the men, but Rion could see the red uniform of all Westerland infantry peeking out of several.

 

“Company! Present arms!” the sergeant that had called attention bellowed. Like all the other soldiers Rion presented his musket is a series of machine precise movements. His eyes remained locked forward so he couldn’t see all the officers but he did see as his colonel, Kevan Jast, rode his horse to the front of the company accompanied by the company commander: Captain Linus Lantell.

 

Jast gave Lantell a nod before trotting slowly off on his horse, no doubt to inspect another company. Lantell glared down at his men before barking in supercilious voice: “Grenadier company will assemble at the Northeastern gate immediately!”

 

“Sir? What of the men who were on overnight duty?” Lieutenant Roger Silverflow asked. He was much younger than Lantell and very popular among the men.

 

“We would all like to be back in our soft warm beds Lieutenant but the Empire’s needs do not wait for us to get our beauty rest! On the double!” Lantell snapped before spurring his horse after Colonel Jast.

 

“Gods damn it all,” Rion groaned as he and the rest of the grenadier company began moving as a body toward the northeastern gate.

 

“Didn’t even get bloody breakfast,” someone muttered in the ranks.

 

“Silence there!” Sergeant Terrance Hill shouted. Hill was no relation of Rion’s, as far as either knew, they were simply both bastard born and from the Westerlands, thus they bore the surname ‘Hill’. No one spoke up after this though low muttering continued all the way to the gate. There they stopped and formed a neat square where they were eventually joined by several more companies though none from their own regiment. Judging from the sie of the men it seemed that they were all grenadiers.

 

“What in seven hells is going on?” Rion’s neighbor asked softly. Rion just gave a tiny jerk of his shoulders meant to simulate a shrug. They both got their answer a minute later as a group of officers rode quickly into the area in front of the assembled grenadiers. Rion got a shock when he saw that, at their head, was the man he’d spoken to in the night. He was looking much more formidable today in the uniform of a general and, notably, no greatcoat.

 

“Men! My name is General Brendon Coldwater and I am your commanding officer. I’m not going to waste your time with speeches, those are for raw recruits. You all know your duty and why you’re here. The Ibbenese have something we want and it’s our job to go take it from them,” Clearwater shouted to the men. Rion was again surprised to hear what were, essentially, his own words coming from the mouth of a general.

 

“That’s right,” someone muttered from inside the ranks of waiting soldiers.

 

“Our scouts have located an Ibbense fort not far from here, the impudent bastards think they can just camp within an easy march of our walls and we won’t do anything. Well I mean to show them how wrong they are. We’re going to march to the fort and take it from the Ib’s!” Coldwater shouted.

 

“Bloody hell,” someone muttered from behind Rion.

 

“But I don’t intend to stay behind sipping tea while you do lads do the fighting. I’m coming along with my staff to see for myself if what we hear in the veil is true about the way the men of the Westerlands fight!” Coldwater went on.

 

This was met with a low approving mutter from the assembled troops. Rion grinned softly, it had been a very nice touch on the general’s part.

 

“We’re going to march right away in company with some artillery so we can surprise those hairy buggers. Now I know some of you have been up all night, but I also know that no western grenadiers are going to allow a little thing like sleep to keep them from a scrap!” Coldwater shouted.

 

This was greeted by a cheer from the men that Rion didn’t join though he did smile approvingly.

 

“Fall out! Double quick!” someone shouted and without another word being needed the men began to file out through the gate. As they went several drummers began to strike the familiar marching song of western troops. As they did the grenadiers all broke into song.

 

“ _And so he spoke, and so he spoke, that lord of Castermere_ …”

 


	2. Chapter 2: Rion Hill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rion Hill and his fellow soldiers prepare for the assault on the Ibenese fort.

“That’s going to be a brute to crack open,” Rion Hill’s fellow soldier, Theo Smith commented. Rion didn’t speak but he did nod, he agreed with Torrance’s assessment. 

They, like the rest of their company, were standing on a hill overlooking their target. It was a fort and, as Torrance had said, it was a brute. The prevailing image of the Ibbenese in Westeros was of short hirsute primitives who couldn’t possibly pose a threat to the magnificent soldiery of the Empire. Rion’s experience told him that only people who hadn’t fought the Ibbenese could believe this.

The natives of Ib were indeed stocky and hairy, but they were also vicious and hardy. It was true that most of their warriors were armed with axes or bows they were lethal with both. The sheer number of casualties the Imperial forces had taken since their arrival on the island gave testament to this fact. Rion himself had lost friends to the Ibbenese and had a very healthy respect for them.

Things would be all the more difficult in this situation. The fort in front of Rion was encased in a low earth wall featuring a stout log palisade at its crest. This would have been hard enough as any attackers would be forced to advance against the walls while under the fire of the defenders. But the outward edge of the earthen berm was covered in loose rocks, most about the size of a cartwheel. These rocks came all the way to the bottom of the palisade.

This meant that even if a breach could be blown in the palisade, assaulting forces would have to climb the rock-strewn hill on their way to reach it. While they climbed they would no doubt be pelted by all sorts of missiles. When they reached the top of the rocky climb they would then have to fight their way through the breach. This would be close quarters fighting of the most brutal sort, fighting where the advantages of muskets would be very limited.

The fort did have a single gate but this didn’t look any more promising. The doors looked very stout and more importantly, they were set deeper into the ground than the walls on either side of them. This meant attackers would have to descend into the dip and then climb up the other side once in the fort, under attack the whole time.

Rion’s experienced eye took all this in as he stared down at the fort. Usually the Ibbenese preferred to fight the invaders of their island through hit and run attacks or ambush. Whenever the Westerosi had time to prepare they usually won, and he didn’t doubt they would win today. The question was how many would die along the way.

“But we have artillery, they can’t fight us!” someone said behind Rion. He looked over his shoulder once to see who had spoken. It was one of the younger men in his company, which explained how he could make such a remarkably stupid remark.

“That’s never stopped them before,” Rion offered.

“Aye they’ll knock part of the wall down and keep the Ib’s heads down sure enough, but when we get to the wall it’s going to be all on us,” Sergeant Terrance Hill said. The Sergeant was an experienced soldier and generally had a soft spot for the younger soldiers, many of whom called him ‘dad’ though never to his face.

“Then the fucking Ibs will split your pretty head open like a bloody egg,” someone else said to a chorus of guffaws. Gallows humor was a tradition that probably dated back to the dawn age. Rion himself wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that ancient heroes like Rodrik or Jory Cassel had used the same jokes before they went into battle. Before anyone else could speak there came the sound of hooves on snow. A moment later a tall man with very dark eyes and grey hair rode past where Rion and fellow soldiers were standing. As Rion watched another group of horsemen, wearing light blue cloaks, followed the first man.

This was General Brendon Clearwater, the commander of all Westerosi Imperial forces on the island. Rion had actually met him the previous night while he’ been on guard duty though he hadn’t known he was speaking to his General. Rion had been on Ib for a year and up until last night he’d never had more than a fleeting glimpse of the man. He’d spent most of that time subduing the neighboring island of Far Ib and had only recently come back to Ib itself.

“The bloody hussars got new cloaks,” someone groused from behind Rion. He was referring to the one cavalry regiment on the island, the 5th Lannister Hussars.

“They’re not from the 5th, that’s the general's personal guard, Veil mountaineers.” Hill put in. This piqued Rion’s interest and he studied the horseman more closely now that they’d come to a stop a dozen yards or so to the right.

Broadly speaking the Westerosi Imperial army was divided into three kinds of troops. The first group were the crown troops. They were called this because they had been raised directly by Imperial ruling house: The Crownstarks. They were the most prestigious forces in the Empire and, perhaps as a consequence, tended to be the best equipped and trained. They included the famous guards regiments. 

The second and most numerous type of soldier in the Imperial army were the regulars. These were troops that had been raised from across Westeros by various local lords. These units were trained, equipped, and usually named after the lord or house that raised them. This led to a wide variety in terms of quality among the units. Some were as well equipped and trained as any crown troops, others were little more than a rabble.

The final group was the irregulars. These were troops who, for a variety of reasons, didn’t fit into the traditional army structure. Crown and regular troops were all organized into regiments, battalions, and companies to ensure some uniformity for command purposes. The irregulars could come in groups of ten or hundreds. They came from across Westeros and many were the scions of long military traditions.

Some, like the famous Northern Rangers or Dornish Raiders, were fearsome fighters who could equal any other unit in the Imperial Army. Many of these were classed as ‘irregulars’ because they had specialized skills. On the other end of the spectrum were groups like the so-called Wildling Warriors or Mountain Clan Levies who were little better than armed mobs. 

The Veil Mountaineers were an example of the better kind of irregulars. They were famous throughout Westeros as the best mountain fighters in the Empire. They were descended from the early forces that had been raised in the era of sword and spear by the Lords of the Veil with one purpose in mind. To subdue the mountain tribes.

“I thought they were infantry not cavalry,” Rion’s neighbor said.

“They are, they’re mounted infantry,” Rion answered. In their mountainous home terrain, it was, no doubt, a huge advantage to the Mountaineers to be able to move quickly from point to point on horseback. Even if they fought on foot.

“Well, why don’t we let them do the bloody fighting then,” someone else asked.

“Attention!” Sergeant Hill shouted before anyone could answer. As his eyes automatically snapped forward Rion saw that General Clearwater had ridden to a position where he could address the assembled Grenadiers.

“Gentlemen! You can see our target and you can see why I wanted my Grenadiers for this scrap,” the General shouted at the troops. In addition to Rion’s Grenadier company from Jast Fusiliers, there were three others drawn up on the hill. 

Before the General could say anything else there was a clattering sound off to the left of the assembled Grenadiers. All eyes, though not heads, flicked in that direction to see a pair of light field guns being dragged forward by teams of horses.

“Yes lads, I dragged the gunners out of bed just for you this morning!” Clearwater roared, drawing a laugh from the Grenadiers. Clearwater let this go on for a few moments before he continued: listen to your officers and sergeants out there and fight like demons! If we all do that, we’ll go home to our freezing billets and terrible food!”. This last remark drew raucous laughter from the men before they broke into a short cheer. The General acknowledged this with a wide smile before turning his horse and riding off with his guards. 

He was replaced in front of Rion by his immediate commanding officer, Captain Linus Lantell. Lantell was not a popular officer, which would have been fine with Rion if he hadn’t been incompetent. From what Rion had seen of the man he was just one of the thousands of officers who had purchased themselves a commission and intended only to use the army as a means of advancing his social standing. The actual business of leading troops was something he simply didn’t care to spend much time on. Lantell was frowning as he glared down at this men. Rion suspected that the Captain disapproved of the General’s friendly manner of dealing with the men. 

“At my command, the company will advance forward and take the fort,” was all he said before spurring his horse away. He evidently thought that this was sufficient instruction for the men, though it obviously wasn’t. It was left to Lieutenant Roger Silverflow, who hadn’t ridden away, to elaborate for the men.

“The guns will open fire soon men. When they’ve knocked a hole in gate they will shift their fire to the wall. Once they’ve opened a hole our company will attack that gap while another company assaults the gate and the third is held in reserve,” Silverflow explained. He waited for the low muttering this provoked to subside before he said: “Sergeant Hill?”

“Yes, Ser?” Hill called back instantly.

“When we are at the base of the berm the men will throw one volley of grenades before beginning their assault, is that understood?” 

“Yes, Ser.”

“Very good, Sergeant…” Silverflow said with a nod before addressing the men as a whole again saying: “...follow the General’s advice, stick by the sergeant and myself, and we’ll all make it home today.”

There was no cheer but the muttering that followed was appreciative in tone. Rion knew that Silverflow, unlike Lantell, was well liked by the men. He was conscientious and never arbitrary. Rion knew he hadn’t yet seen combat but if he proved as adept at fighting as he was at organizing then he could truly exceptional. As Silverflow trotted off, Sergeant Hill shouted at the men.

“Equipment check! Flints, powder, blades, and bombs. Eat if you got anything but be ready to move,” Hill shouted. Rion didn’t need telling twice. He’d been on guard duty all night through the snow and knew that there was a strong possibility the priming in his gun would be damp. He was less concerned with his bombs and bayonet. He always kept his bombs snug in their straw-lined pouch and he’d sharpened his bayonet the previous evening.

But it never paid to assume so after he’d replaced the priming in his weapon and double checked that it was loaded, he moved on to this other equipment. His bayonet was as sharp as he’d left it and a quick check told him that his bombs and fuses were still ready. Lastly, he made sure to ignite the end of a length of slow match that all grenadiers kept tucked in a loop on their jackets. Having satisfied himself he ignored the sound of whetstones, ramrods, and other signs of preparation around him and took out the cheese that Clearwater himself had given to him the night before. 

He was feeling tired of course. Ordinarily, he would have been allowed to get a few hours rest in the morning as he’d been on night guard duty. This attack had derailed those plans. But the food was welcome and it did seem to perk him up. The cheese lasted him for a few minutes when he suddenly heard a loud booming sound from his left. Turning he saw smoke belching from one of the guns that had been set up there.

Seeing that one of the younger men beside him was scrambling to stand Rion waved him down saying: “The guns are still cold, they won’t be accurate for a few minutes and then we still have to wait for them to open our breach.”

It actually took almost fifteen minutes of firing before the gate came down and a further ten before the gunners blasted open a breach in the wall. The order move still didn’t come then however as the gunners worked to widen the breach and to keep the Ibenese from clustering on the inside of the gap. Only after the gap looked to be about twenty feet wide did the guns switch to firing at another section of the wall. Then the order came for the men to fall in.

“Forward, MARCH!” Captain Lantell shouted. Rion noted, even as he began to march, that the voice had come from well behind the company.

There then came the sound of many booted feet hitting the ground at the same time. It was a sound that Rion would forever associate with a battle. Along with this association came the familiar quickening of his heart rate and heightened alertness. His fatigue was forgotten now, adrenaline was seeing to that. He just kept his eyes facing straight ahead toward the breach in the walls that was his destination.

As the grenadiers advanced a fifer struck up a marching song from behind the company. The song was as familiar as breathing to the grenadiers and it helped steady their nerves. This held true even as several puffs of smoke appeared atop the nearest section of intact wall. A moment later Rion heard a wet sound as something smacked into the ground a few feet ahead of the company.

“Steady boys, let them waste their shots,” Sergeant Hill called. While the Ibenese didn’t make their own guns many muskets had fallen into their hands over the course of their fighting with the Imperial Army. They’d incorporated their use, sometimes to great effect, but the sergeant was right in this case. Firing at this range was little more than an act of faith.

As the company continued to approach however the Ibenese fire became more deadly. This was mostly because they could now hit the attackers with a weapon they were much more confident with: their bows. A deadly hail of arrows rained down on the company from above. Rion remembered hearing that in ancient times attacking armies had advanced toward walls with their shields interlocked over their heads. Now he fervently wished he had a shield.

“Close up! Close up!” Sergeant Hill and the corporals bellowed at the men. They were telling the men to file inward to fill in the spots of men who had been hit. Musket infantry could only usually be effective if they moved as a compact group and nothing would shatter that cohesion quicker than the men drifting slowly apart. 

Rion’s neighbor, a man named Mathias, dropped to the snow as they both advance. Rion just had time to catch a fleeting glimpse of an arrow in his chest before he was out of view. The march toward the walls probably only took a few minutes, but to Rion and the Grenadiers, it felt like a week. When they had finally reached the base of the stone strew berm, Rion heard Silverflow’s voice shouting to them.

“Prepare grenade!” the Lieutenant shouted. 

As one the men shouldered their muskets, reached into their pouches, and withdrew the small iron spheres filled with gunpowder that were the weapons that gave them their names. They then withdrew a fuse which they inserted into the grenades. 

“Light grenades!” Silverflow called.

Rion and the other grenadiers pressed the tip of the fuse they’d just inserted against the smoldering tip of his slow match. It took only a moment before the fuse ignited.

“Throw!” Silverflow commanded.

The remaining men of the grenadier company, who had spread out the first command, drew their arms and heaved the heavy spheres upward. This was the technical reason why grenadiers were recruited from the biggest and strongest, the need to hurl the heavy metal grenades a great distance.

The berm was only about ten feet high with the palisade two or three feet back from the crest. Thirteen feet might not be any great distance, but it was a different matter when you had to heave a metal ball that distance. Even so, the men of the company were good at their jobs. Rion didn’t see one grenade fall short, they all dropped squarely into the breach.

“Level arms!” Silverflow called to the men. Unnecessarily, they’d all unshouldered their muskets the moment after they’d shrugged off their grenade pouches. The pouches would be a heavy encumbrance while climbing and the grenades would be useless once the hand to hand fighting began anyway.

“Charge!” the command came. Rion only heard the first half of the word as the air was suddenly split by a tremendous explosion. This was the sound of the grenades detonating. 

Letting out a roar, Rion and the rest of the grenadiers began to charge up the hill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone liked this chapter! In finest ASOIF tradition I'm moving at a deliberate pace in the story ;)
> 
> If you enjoyed this please remember to leave a comment or a kudo and if you REALLY liked it consider bookmarking it!
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to write an ASOIF/GOT fic for a long time. I tried one a long time ago but it fizzled on me. But THIS story, I feel so strongly about it that I just HAVE to see it through.
> 
> Comments, kudos, and especially bookmarks are always appreciated!
> 
> What did everyone think here? Rion seems like he could be doing so much more with his life if only he had the opportunity right? We just have to hope that he survives this next battle!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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